


Double Dee

by ElleCC



Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, Genderswap, M/M, Superwolf, dean does too, dee hale, dee winchester, derek has bad luck with basements, fluffy nonsense, nebulous timelines, temporary genderswap, witches are nasty bitches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-22
Updated: 2014-01-22
Packaged: 2018-01-09 16:37:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1148264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElleCC/pseuds/ElleCC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Oh man, look at your little feet. God, they’re so cute!” </p>
<p>Derek frowns at his feet; they <i>are</i> tiny. How’s he supposed to walk on those?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Double Dee

**Author's Note:**

> The timeline is nebulous and unimportant. No spoilers for Teen Wolf Season 3b or Supernatural Season 9.
> 
> My _**HUGE**_ thanks to [Unloyal_Olio](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Unloyal_Olio/pseuds/Unloyal_Olio) for her extensive encouragement, brainstorming, and betaing. She’s worth her weight in quality Sterek. This started as pointless crap I wasn’t even going to post, but under her awesome guidance, it’s become something I actually like. I'm a constant fiddler, so any remaining mistakes are mine alone.
> 
> This came from an internal gripe about neither Derek Hale nor Dean Winchester having good names for genderswap stories. That led to thinking about Dee Hale and Dee Winchester meeting, and then this happened...

“So, come here often?” asks the guy (girl?) or _whatever_ hanging next to Derek. The question is accompanied by a leer that looks out of place on his face. His _girl_ face. Maybe his leers get the job done when his eyelashes aren’t half an inch long. Maybe not. Derek doesn’t actually care.

Fucking witches.

Derek tries to glare through the haze in his brain. “You realize I did see that you’re a guy, right? Before...” He jerks his chin in the other guy’s (girl’s?) direction.

The guy shrugs. “I’m open-minded. Why, got something better to do?” The guy lets his surprisingly stacked body swing back and forth a few times before he hauls himself up to brace his feet on the wall behind him. Derek looks down at his own chest. It is... not as impressive. “Worried your girlfriend will be jealous? Hey, maybe she’s open-minded, too. They say good things come in threes.” His eyes openly rove over Derek’s dangling body, pausing appreciatively in a couple of key places that Derek has a suddenly strong urge to cover up.

“No, but my boyfriend might,” Derek answers. Then he glares at the ceiling because he knows better than to share personal information. Never mind that what this guy has to say is the least of Derek’s worries.

Since he’s _hanging from the ceiling by his wrists._

He needs a new life.

The guy gives a contemplative hum, but his response is overwhelmed by a shout and bang and crash from above.

_Finally_ something’s happening.

“Took long enough,” the guy says between gunshots upstairs. “Sammy!” he hollers. “Down here!”

“Shut the hell up,” Derek growls. Some of the stomping upstairs sounds familiar—he can picture Isaac’s combat boots with the heaviest heel—but he’s not trusting _anything_ until he sees or smells them for himself. Not when he’s this powerless.

“Nah, we’re good. I recognize that dulcet roar.” The guy is staring at the ceiling. Even for Derek, the shouting is too muffled to decipher, but there is a voice he doesn’t recognize along with the couple he does.

There’s a series of muffled bangs like something falling down the stairs to the basement, and then the wooden door flies open and Stiles flails his way into the room, a bat in one hand and one of Chris’ modified handguns in the other.

It’s instinct that has Derek reaching for Stiles. Or trying. Unfortunately his arms are still strung above his head, so nothing happens except his feet slip from where they’ve been precariously pressed into the brick wall behind him to relieve some of the pressure on his arms. His shoulders jerk painfully as all his weight falls to his wrists. He feels the cuts on the bottoms of his feet split open, even through his grungy socks.

Stiles is already headed toward where they’re hanging, but there’s no recognition on his face. Just panic and disappointment as he scans the room and mumbles, “He’s supposed to be down here. _Shit._ ”

“Stiles,” Derek barks out. He can’t look _that_ different. Although, the higher register of his voice is still disconcerting. Derek ignores it in favor of glowering at Stiles.

Stiles jerks at his name, and the bat comes up. “What? How do you know…” Comprehension overtakes him like a tidal wave: his mouth falls open, his eyes show a painful amount of white around the iris. “Oh _shit_. Derek?! What the—” The bat bobbles crazily as Stiles gesticulates all over the place.

“Fucking witches, man.” The other guy sighs. The _hunter_ , Jesus. Derek knows this guy’s a hunter; he watched the coven strip him of an arsenal even bigger than Allison carries on her person. This guy might turn on him the second they’re free, even if he didn’t so much as blink when Derek beta shifted while the witches were stringing him up. “Hey,” the hunter says now, "did you bring a baseball bat to a witch fight?”

Stiles turns toward him, obviously still dazed. “What—girl, he’s a—”

“A little help?” Derek shakes his arms, rattling the heavy chains. “Keys are over there.”

Stiles keeps right on gaping over his shoulder as he snatches the key ring from a hook by the door and then sprints across the long basement toward a pile of chairs in the far corner. But there’s a degree of calm on his face that wasn’t there a minute ago.

“Hey, you see a sasquatch upstairs?” the other guy asks.

Derek is barely able to bite back a sigh when Stiles slides a chair under his feet. The rush of blood to his shoulders is an agonizing relief.

“A sasquatch?” Stiles asks as he leaves Derek to help the hunter. He catches the other guy’s swinging legs and gently guides them onto the second chair. “Are those real, too?” Stiles continues, attention at least temporarily focused on something other than Derek’s… situation. “Ha, I told you, man!” He smirks at Derek from where he’s pressed up against the hunter's very _feminine_ body as he works on the shackles. Derek focuses fruitlessly on trying to dislocate his thumbs so he can free himself before he’s tempted to do something inadvisable—like break the hunter’s legs. “Sasquatches and abominable snowmen are _awesome_. Hey, did you know there were sixteen reported Bigfoot sightings in Northern California last year alone?” The hunter’s chains clang to the dirty floor. “Twenty-eight in the Pacific Northwest. And that’s just _reported_. Probably dozens more people see them but don’t bother to say anything for a variety of reasons.”

“No, not a real—ah, fuck yeah.” The guy slumps in the chair, massaging his own shoulders and arms. Derek watches him for a moment, but he seems uninterested in attacking despite how vulnerable Derek is right now.

“Stiles.”

Stiles makes a _simmer down_ gesture at Derek. “Hey, hey, grumpy, chill. I’ll be right there. Is chivalry _really_ that dead? Wow, you’d think you’ve been hanging from a wall for hours or something.”

Derek waits until Stiles has climbed up on his chair and is leaning against the wall while bracing Derek’s body with his own as he jabs the keys at the shackles. “She’s not a _her_ either, Stiles.”

Stiles’ eyes go huge again, this time right in Derek’s face. Actually, _above_ Derek's face by a good seven or eight inches, dammit. “What? No way.” Stiles glances back at the hunter over one very broad shoulder. “Oh, I guess that explains the clothes. Huh.” His expression is a little too narrow-eyed, a little too _appreciative_. It’s only because he’s holding the literal keys to Derek’s freedom that Derek doesn’t knock him off the chair.

_“Stiles_.”

Stiles cuts off further complaints with a hard press of his mouth against Derek’s. It’s fast, too brief, but hot and familiar and exactly what Derek needs. Although, Derek will go to his wolfsbane-ringed grave before he admits to anyone, living or dead, how abruptly the tension and anger leach out of him at the touch of Stiles’ lips.

“Fuck, I’m glad you’re okay,” Stiles mumbles. “Had me worried, asshole. You forget your rape whistle at home? Haven’t I taught you anything?” He fumbles with the keys and shackles for another few seconds before he has both of Derek’s wrists freed. Derek can only groan in relief as Stiles helps him down from the chair.

The ache in his arms is intense, but it’s not enough of a distraction to keep Derek from noticing how Stiles’ arm fits comfortably around his waist—it wraps almost all the way around him. Or how big and sure Stiles’ hands feel on his arm and hip. He’s a solid weight against Derek, and Derek is almost shocked by how much he really wants to… feel more of that weight against his body.

“Kid,” the hunter says, jarring Derek out of his Stiles-focused inattention. “Sasquatch upstairs? Guy about yeah big?” The hunter holds his hand a couple inches above his own head, then a second later jerks it about a foot higher, obviously irked.

“That’s seriously a little short for a sasquatch…” Stiles frowns.

“I mean my brother. Stupid Fabio hair? Probably had a big silver knife? Was yelling in Latin?”

Hating himself intensely, Derek wonders if he’s pulling off his butch haircut as well as the other guy is.

Stiles looks up from rubbing Derek’s hands. “Oh yeah, him. He’s up there with Chris and Allison. They’re the ones conducting the gunshot symphony. There’s a redheaded chick in a cool t-shirt. She yours, too?”

The guy’s heart rate, nothing but steady to this point, jumps. “Charlie?” He looks down at himself, gives his breasts an unsubtle squeeze. He’s smirking when he looks back up. “I think Charlie and I have a little something to discuss.” Boots in hand, he jogs out of the room, nearly tripping over the legs of his jeans.

“Hey, dude! Where are you going?” Stiles hollers after him. “It’s crazy up there—fireballs and shit! Do you even...” he trails off, then finishes, mumbling, “…have a weapon?” as he turns back to Derek. “How are hunters so dumb? How do they survive?”

Derek is sure he must be broadcasting incredulity, but Stiles has already shifted focus. “Oh man, look at your little feet. God, they’re so cute! Ugh, and bloody.” He carefully tugs off first one sock and then the other. Derek frowns at his feet; they _are_ tiny. How’s he supposed to walk on those? “Hey, why aren’t you healing?”

Derek fights a wince. “Stop poking at open wounds, Stiles.”

“But—”

“There was something in the spell they did,” Derek says. He lets his eyes close for a moment. He knows he should be upstairs helping the rest of the pack subdue whomever’s left from the coven, but he feels out of it, shaky at best. “It’s...”—he waves a hand—“interfering with my wolf or something. Incompatible.”

Stiles sucks in a harsh breath. “What does that mean, incompatible? Derek, does that mean—”

Derek wraps a hand around Stiles’ neck—or tries, at least. He can’t even get it halfway around with these short, hairless fingers. “Calm down. Breathe. It doesn’t mean anything awful.” He tilts his neck, cracking it. “My body’s confused about... everything right now. I think it’s trying to fight the magic and put itself back together the right away, but it can’t, and that’s taking energy from healing.” He holds out a hand; it takes actual effort to extend his claws. Yeah, the basement’s probably the best place for him right now. He’s a liability until they’ve dealt with the spell.

“Well, shit.” Stiles goes back to rubbing his wrists. “Man, I’d take just about anything over witches. You know what Beacon Hills needs? A herd of good old selkies, am I right? Because nothing says fun and excitement like selkies.”

“Stiles.” Derek tugs his hand away and grabs Stiles’ before he can start massaging something else that feels perfectly fine. “What’s happening upstairs?”

“Uh, right. We tracked—”

“Shit!” a voice booms.

Derek and Stiles both twist around in time to see the also-a-girl hunter roll down the last two steps. He lands in a heap a few feet from the stairs. Following the acrid scent of ozone that pours in after him is the even worse stench of burning cotton. Derek zeroes in on the tail of the guy’s overshirt: It’s on fire.

Derek is across the room and shredding the shirt right off the guy’s back before he’s even stopped groaning.

“Derek, Derek, your hands,” Stiles is saying behind him, “and your feet are still bleeding.”

The guy pushes himself to sitting. “What are you— Whoa.” He considers the smoldering mess Derek’s holding. “Did that with your bare hands, huh?” The guy quirks an eyebrow. “Not just a pretty face. Impressive.” The look he levels at Derek is a bit more intense than before—it’s full of the kind of intent Derek would expect to see over drinks in a bar or from moms in grocery stores. The hunter’s gaze is even more explicit than the time Stiles dragged him all the way to the Berkeley library, where they sat next to a table of sorority girls for two hours.

“There was fire,” Derek growls in distraction. He really hopes Stiles isn’t paying attention. He’s always a little too quick to notice when anyone hits on Derek, and Derek never knows if Stiles is going to find it merely amusing or a personal challenge. They don’t have time for either right now.

“Yeah, I got that. Fucking _fireballs_.” The hunter sits the rest of the way up and peels off the remnants of his shirt. When he twists, there are long slashes across the back of his henley, baring a lot of pale skin, but thankfully, it’s intact enough to do its job.

“That’s what I was trying to tell you.” Stiles pushes in between them and tosses the pieces of smoking shirt away before grabbing Derek’s hands. “Did you listen? Does anyone listen to Stiles? Nope. They just run right into the middle of a witch battle, unarmed. At least I had a freaking bat.” Stiles glares at the guy before rounding at Derek. “Or they grab burning shirts with _their bare hands_ , Jesus.” Derek wants to tug his hands away again, but Stiles is fretful, fingertips pressing too hard into Derek’s wrists as he turns Derek’s hands over. Derek’s palms remind him of the time he put both hands on a hot stove when he was six: red and blistered, fingers curved in. He’s a pro with pain—it’s part of being a werewolf—but normally it fades, and this pain is not fading. Derek focuses on the feel of Stiles’ long, cool fingers against his skin and the slightly elevated thump of Stiles’ heartbeat to distance himself from the discomfort.

The guy leans in. “Shit, are you okay?”

“He would be if not for—” Stiles flaps two very angry hands at the ceiling, then flinches when there’s an enormous thud right above them. “You’re still not healing.”

“I’m fine.” Derek pulls his hands back. On a scale of one to wolfsbane poisoning to impaled-with-a-pipe, it barely registers. Derek stands. The other two follow. “Now, tell me what’s going on upstairs.”

“Your feet!” Stiles thrusts a finger.

Derek turns on him, teeth bared. “Priorities, Stiles.”

“Fine.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “Before I managed to get down here, there was one very stupid witch dead thanks to Chris, three detained by your kids, and one had taken off into the woods. Scott and Isaac went after him. There were two left, one of them throwing”—he turns that death glare on the hunter—“miniature fireballs.”

“Not so mini anymore.” The hunter looks back up the stairs. “And now it’s not just two witches free—it’s three. Although your Morpheus up there has a couple trapped in a blue pill.”

“Deaton,” Stiles says to Derek. “He insisted on coming when we picked up on the strength of the magical signatures.”

“I got that,” Derek says a bit sharper than he intends. The hunter is _still_ eyeing Derek like they're in a bar ( _and not the wrong gender_ ), and Stiles looming over Derek is making him antsy.

“By the way,” he says, hand extended to Derek, “I’m—”

“Dean!” A tall guy with a lot of hair is thumping down the stairs. Derek’s hackles rise instinctively at the shotgun in his hand. He reaches to push Stiles back, but Stiles shoves his hand away and steps in front of Derek. Derek has to duck under the arm Stiles is holding out to the side. The guy pulls to an abrupt stop as soon as he takes in the three standing in the basement. Specifically _Dean_. “Ah shit, not again.”

“Hey, what can I say, Sammy?” _Dean_ spreads his hands, does a slow spin, and Derek does not check out his ass. Or all that skin showing through the holes in his shirt. “I make a damn fine lady. Now, not as nice as _this_ one.” He winks at Derek.

Stiles chokes.

“Really, Dean?” Sammy sighs. “You’re... never mind. Of course you are. All right, things are pretty well under control up there. Do you know what spell they used? Did you recognize it? Please tell me it wasn’t the tall one with long, dark hair who cast it.”

Stiles turns panicky eyes on Derek. “Was it?”

“No,” Dean and Derek say at the same time.

Stiles sags a little. “Good. That one’s dead. If the witch who cast the spell died—and you were still like this? Bad news, _compadres_.”

“You’re expecting something _good_ to come out of this?” Derek asks.

Stiles’ shoulders lose some more of their tension, but his expression becomes... something Derek isn’t sure he wants to see down here in this dirty basement. Stiles bites his bottom lip as he reaches forward to tug on the collar of Derek’s shirt. “How pissed will you be if I say I’m hoping it’s one of those things that’ll just wear off after _X_ hours or days and there’s nothing we can do about it?” His grin is broad as his eyes travel up and down Derek, and Derek can’t help but look down at himself.

His henley has tears across the stomach and one sleeve, of course it does, but it’s still fairly snug across the chest (though not as snug as what remains of _Dean’s_ henley). He’s sure his jeans should be in danger of falling off, but instead they’re resting comfortably on his hips. His distressingly curvy hips. The cuffs are too long, though—if he’s planning to walk anywhere, he’ll trip.

He bends and quickly slices off a strip of denim around the bottom of each leg. And only because he’s down here, he does the same for Dean.

“Thanks.” Dean unmistakably winks at him.

“Can we focus?” Sammy asks. “The spell, Dean? Or...” He turns to Derek.

“Derek,” Dean says, pointing to him. “This is Stiles. Derek, here, is our local neighborhood Alpha.” Dean rocks back on his heels. Smugly.

The red haze tints Derek’s vision just long enough for Sammy to get a look. Derek would be irritated that the guy doesn’t so much as blink, but it’s just not Derek’s day, so he’s not surprised. Besides, he’s too busy being relieved that some of his control has returned. He slides his fangs out half an inch and retracts them with ease.

“Of course you get tossed in a basement and cursed by witches with an alpha werewolf. Of course you do.” Sammy sighs. Again. Derek can’t tell if he was just insulted. “The spell? Anyone?”

“Calm down, Princess Whines-a-lot. It was short,” Dean says. “And there was a blue flash.”

Like they planned it, Stiles whips out his phone as Sammy produces a slim leather-bound book out of nowhere. Dean chuckles. Derek rolls his eyes.

Stiles leans closer, peering at the book. “What’s that, Sammy?”

“It’s _Sam,”_ the hunters chorus.

“Whoa, okay.” Stiles holds up his hands. “Easy, easy.” He gives them his dealing-with-the-crazies look. “ _Sam_ , may I ask what that neat-looking book is?”

They confer for a moment over Sam’s book and Stiles’ copy of the bestiary on his phone (Derek feels oddly proud when Sam looks impressed), then Stiles asks, “Blue flash? You’re sure? Not green? Or orange?” He glances at Derek. His thumb keeps scrolling along his screen even while he’s not looking.

“Blue,” Derek says. “And she said something like, uh... _luna day..._ ”

“ _Luna orbis_ , too,” Dean says. “Moon something.”

“Moon cycle, maybe,” Stiles says. “Moon cycle. That’s...” He and Derek both glance up, like they can see the sky through the house above them.

“Waxing gibbous,” Derek says. “So, what, we’re like this until the full moon?”

Stiles looks like he has a lot to say, but he only shrugs. “Maybe? It would help if—”

Derek is so preoccupied with the fact that he’s going to have a _vagina_ for at least another week that he doesn’t hear the witch until she’s standing a few yards away. Then again, the way the others startle, too, maybe she appeared out of thin air.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” She sounds gleeful. Her hands are clasped in front of her, but Derek can’t stop his claws and teeth from sliding out. “I was happy with the two—more than happy, truth be told—but four?” She throws her head back and laughs—yes, actually throws her head back like she’s a villain in one of those stupid movies Stiles and Scott like. Except with the pantsuit, she looks more like a Wall Street asshole than a wicked witch. “Four is _so_ much better.” She unlocks her fingers and holds up her hands. Blue sparks dance between her fingers.

“It’s actually only twice as better,” Stiles snaps.

The witch pauses. All eyes go to Stiles. _Shut the hell up_ is on the tip of Derek’s tongue, but the witch’s hands drop, and if Stiles can keep her distracted...

“Pardon?” she asks.

“You had two, now you have four,” Stiles says. “It’s twice as better, get it? Two times two is four. It’s math. Unless you’re talking logarithms, which... you could be, I guess, but l have a feeling all the Slytherins were exempted from basic math in favor of extra ‘How to Be Evil’ classes.”

The witch looks amused, but the sparks running along her hands intensify as she glides closer to Stiles.

So, Stiles isn’t distracting her—he’s only drawing attention to himself. “Stiles, shut the—”

The witch waves a hand, and Derek chokes.

Stiles spins toward him, eyes angry but anxious until Derek coughs a couple of times and raises his hands. “I’m fine,” he rasps past the burning in his throat.

Any humor Stiles had a moment ago is gone when he turns back to the witch. “This was bad enough...” He points at Derek. Derek wishes he didn’t feel offended. “But I’m officially done with this witch crap for today. I’d really like to be home in time for _Ghostfacers_ with my _boy_ friend beside me.” He turns to Derek. “Not that you’re not hot as fucking sin like this with your perfect—everything.”

Now it’s not _offended_ Derek feels. Heat crawls up the back of his neck and down through his stomach.

“Amen,” Dean mutters.

“Aww, is that so.” The witch moves another foot closer. “And what do you plan to do about it, my little spark? Still waiting for your admissions letter, aren’t you?”

Stiles snorts. “Bitch, please. My magic was homeschooled.” And then he blows a handful of fine black powder directly in her face.

* * *

By the time the witch’s screams have cut off, Stiles has spouted a bunch of complicated-sounding Latin, joined at the tail-end by Sam. Now the witch is lying on the packed-earth floor with her limbs spread like she’s about to be drawn and quartered by invisible horses. Her mouth is open as if she’s still screaming, but there’s no sound coming out. Derek is impressed.

So is Deaton. “Not bad,” he says as he trails Chris Argent down the steps.

“We've got it,” Chris says, waving Deaton toward him. Derek doesn’t miss the way Chris keeps side-eyeing him, but so far he’s keeping his opinions on Derek’s situation to himself.

Deaton, on the other hand, looks openly amused.

“What will you do with them?” Sam asks. He and Dean are on the other side of the witch. Dean’s crouched down, rubbing a bit of Stiles’ mountain ash between two fingers.

“Witch rehab,” Chris says. “We have a place up north where we send them.”

Sam looks uncertain, but Dean shrugs and slaps Sam’s stomach. “We’re not on clean-up duty for once? Fine by me. I’ve got better places to be.”

“Yeah you do,” a girl with red hair says from the stairs. “And if you’re nice, we’ll even stop for burgers.”

Dean jumps to his feet. “Is that _all_ we’re gonna stop for?”

Charlie, he thinks that was her name, gives Dean a wicked grin, and Derek wonders if that touch of playful evil is something innate to redheads. After wiggling her fingers at Stiles, she spins to skip up the stairs.

“Let’s go, Dean.” Sam wraps a hand around Dean’s neck and pushes.

He slaps Sam’s hand away. “Hands off the merchandise, Sammy.”

They bicker their way to the stairs, but at the bottom, Dean turns back to Derek. “Wanna come with us? The geeks can debrief while you and I have a little... _debrief_ of our own with Charlie.” His smirk becomes a leer that does... nothing for Derek. Because he’s never been attracted to nice mouths. Nope.

Luckily, before Derek can stammer his way into the doghouse, Stiles throws an arm (a big, _strong_ arm) around his shoulders to _cuddle_ Derek close. “Sorry, buddy, this little lady is _mine.”_ He smacks a kiss against Derek’s temple.

Derek seriously considers kneeing Stiles in the balls. He’ll show Stiles a _little lady_.

Dean shrugs, hitching his thumb into the waist of his jeans. “All right, all right. Maybe we’ll see you around.”

Stiles and Derek wait around while Deaton and Chris deal with the witch. When they finally head for the stairs, Deaton leading, the witch tossed over Chris’ shoulder, Stiles tugs on Derek’s sleeve and hangs back.

Derek turns to Stiles. “What’s going—” is all he gets out before he abruptly finds himself hefted off the ground, cradled in Stiles’ arms.

It takes a moment for the shock to wear off. Stiles grins at him. “Stiles, what the— Put me the fuck down, right now.”

“No can do. Your adorable little tootsies are still all butchered. Just because _you_ think chivalry is dead...”

“I’m still healing, just slower than normal. And I’m almost all healed.” He waves a nearly perfect palm in Stiles’ face. “I’m not going to get an _infection_.”

“I know you won’t. Because I have a kickass first aid kit in the Jeep, plus that bag of spare clothes of Lydia’s. I bet there are clean socks and shoes in there. Maybe a shirt, too. She won’t care.”

“Stiles.” Derek tries to twist himself free.

Stiles’ grip tightens. “Can it, she-wolf. You know how often I’ve thought about this?”

That gives Derek pause, and something sinks in his stomach, deep, deep down, as he thinks of Lydia. He leans back far enough to get a good look at Stiles’ face. “You’ve thought about me being a girl?”

Stiles’ mouth falls open. “No, dumbass.” Because they’re so close together, Derek doesn’t miss the flare in Stiles’ eyes. “Of finally being the one to do the manhandling. Womanhandling.” His hands tighten on Derek’s back and legs like they’re trying to flail. “ _Wolfhandling_ , you know what I mean. You’re always all about the Stileshandling, and I never get the chance.”

The sinking sensation morphs into a warmth that’s hard to ignore.

Stiles kisses Derek hard and fast, like earlier, but with something Derek recognizes as interest. Mostly because of the way Stiles’ teeth tug Derek’s lip. “You wouldn’t do that to me, would you? You wouldn’t crush my little heart like that.” He nips the corner of Derek’s jaw; the roughness of his cheek against Derek’s is startling. “You wouldn’t deprive me of tossing you around a little, maybe throwing _you_ up against a wall? Or onto the bed? I bet I can cover you up, press you down, get you right where I want you...” Stiles’ breath is hot on his neck, and Derek is nearly overwhelmed by _all the sensation_ and the way it’s coaxing his body _._

He keeps his mouth shut and absolutely does not tuck himself farther into Stiles’ arms. Anyone who wants to judge him can go get their own Bambi-eyed knight-errant and see how long _they_ can resist. Then again, Derek can always blame it on the spell.

Fucking witches.


End file.
